A Nocturnal Visitor
by starry-oblivion
Summary: [Tim Burton movieverse] After Ichabod settles down with Katrina in New York, young Masbath is somewhat disappointed to see that Ichabod is constantly attempting to put up a stoic front. A quick visit from an unexpected winged visitor changes all that.


"Yes. Hrm… very interesting."

Putting his magnifying goggles away, Ichabod rose to his feet, gravely surveying the body. Young Masbath, who was keeping a steady hand on the lantern over the corpse, gazed up at him expectantly. Rubbing his hands together, Ichabod turned to look at the small gathering of rookie policemen. "What we have here, gentlemen, is a murder."

There was a moment of silence amongst the onlookers. Picking his bag up from the muddy ground, Ichabod reveled in the satisfaction of a job well done. He raised an eyebrow, then, when he saw that one of the younger policemen had hesitantly raised his hand. "Yes?"

"Well, sir, can you be more specific?"

Ichabod blinked. "Specific?" His cohorts nodded, their shadowy faces exhibiting their bewilderment. With a glance at Masbath, Ichabod replied, "Well, surely. Yes. Of course. Specific. This man has been shot."

Another moment of silence passed. Finally, a bold chap by the name of Morris spoke up. "Well naturally, he's been shot. The gunshot was what called us here in the first place and there's a bullet hole 'tween his eyes as plain as day. Is there anything you can tell us that we _don't_ already know?"

"I _can_ tell you, young man," Ichabod started, stepping towards Morris, "that that tone of voice is thoroughly unnecessary. Perhaps you _do_ know that he has been shot, or perhaps that little fact eluded some of your cronies. And perhaps you _do_ know that you are in the presence of Constable Ichabod Crane, the man who _practically_ single-handedly rid the town of Sleepy Hollow of the dread Headless Horseman. Am I, or am I not, correct, young Masbath?"

"You're correct, sir," Masbath spoke up. "I was there; I saw it all. The constable is a very intelligent man, and he would have defeated the Horseman even _without_ Katrina's witchcraft. Why, Katrina and I played hardly any part in the ordeal at all, except as spectators. A braver man there never was, despite all accounts. It _was_ a rather squeamish case, you see, and so one could hardly blame him for-"

"That's enough, young Masbath," Ichabod quickly broke in, fearing where this half-improvised praise would go. "I think our companions understand the severity of the situation."

"I understand it plain, all right," Morris admitted. "You're _nuts_!" As the men behind them became nervier and uttered a few chuckles, Morris snatched at Ichabod's black bag. As Ichabod protested and attempted to take it back, Morris began rifling through it. "Look at this nonsense! Apparatuses that not even the most desperate quack in New York City would pay a penny for, potions that would shame any witch! I don't even see a blasted gun anywhere in here-"

"You'll see one soon enough, if you don't drop that bag." Surprised, Morris looked up and saw Chief Inspector Riley making his way down the embankment. It was all he could do to comply and actually drop the bag, much to Ichabod's disappointment. "I've heard reports of your insubordination before, Morris," Riley continued, "but I'm displeased to see the evidence with my own eyes."

As Morris pleaded on his behalf and proclaimed that he was only skittish due to the late hour, Ichabod tried to inch around the large officer and get his bag. He saw with some disdain that it landed in a particularly grubby spot of earth, and withdrew his handkerchief. He was none too keen on touching whatever was living in that muck.

Luckily, he was spared such an ordeal by the chief. "Morris! Pick up Constable Crane's bag at once!" Still babbling in hopes of forgiveness, Morris obliged, absently re-closing the bag and shoving it into Ichabod's hands. Ichabod could feel the cold slimy mud that now dripped from his fingers. And he had so hoped to be able to avoid messy work post-Horseman.

He was called away by the chief inspector while the younger men did the grunt work. Motioning for Masbath to follow, Ichabod leaned in towards Riley and confided, "I have no use for such hotheaded mannerisms on my force."

Riley looked surprised. "_Your_ force?"

"Well… yes. No. No, not _my_ force. I meant that simply as a gesture of camaraderie. You know, as when someone says this is _my_ town or _my_ home. All right, perhaps in regards to home, it may actually _be_ one's home." Aware that he was babbling, Ichabod shook his head. "The point is-"

"Ichabod," Riley interrupted tiredly. "Go home." Ichabod asked what he meant, and Riley only insisted, "It's late. The coroner's on his way, and I have more men than I need already present. The last thing I need is _you _causing a scene."

"A scene?"

"The way you carry on at a crime scene," Riley responded, "you can hardly blame the lads for their disrespect. Despite the success of your Sleepy Hollow escapades, your measures are still considered unorthodox by all who witness them. Not to mention, ever since your return, you _do_ appear a bit high-strung."

"High-strung?" Ichabod cleared his throat, noting that his voice had increased in pitch. "Chief Inspector, think what you like-"

"I do," Riley interrupted once again. "Many times. Often to my discredit. And one of the things I think is that you are truly a genius, Ichabod. Really. However, you're burnt out and flighty. Neither are impressive qualities in a constable. Perhaps a few days off your feet would do you a world of good."

Riley clapped a hand on Ichabod's shoulder before turning away and moving towards the other men. Masbath looked at Riley, then faced Ichabod worriedly. "They can't do that to you! …can they?"

Ichabod sighed, looking absently to the ground. "They can. But… they shouldn't." Flighty. Burnt out. Ichabod smirked. "I _will_ go home. After a good night's rest, I'll be able to go to the precinct tomorrow and give Riley a logical and sound reason for why he's such a fool." Stifling a yawn, he finished, "Come, Young Masbath. Sleep will do us both some good."

At a loss for words, Masbath could only follow Ichabod home.

* * *

Despite it all, Ichabod was glad to be home. 

"Take my bag to the study," he asked of Masbath. The boy dutifully began up the stairs with the large grip. "Wash out anything I've used tonight that may need a good disinfecting; especially anything touched by that idiot Morris. And take care not to wake Katrina."

At this, Masbath stopped. "Don't you remember, sir? Katrina will be away for three days. Doing some sort of cleansing ceremony with that coven she's started up."

"Cleansing ceremony?" Ichabod wrinkled his brow as he removed his tie. "That's the first I ever heard of this. When was she planning on telling me?"

"She _has_ told you, sir," Masbath insisted. "It's all she's been talking about for weeks. Don't you remember?"

Unable to permit the idea that he really _was_ as gone as Chief Inspector Riley suggested, Ichabod replied, "I've a mind like a steel trap, boy. Don't you think I'd remember hearing her say something like that?"

Masbath was about to make a comment, but knew Ichabod well enough to know that he was avoiding the subject. Without another word, he continued up to the study as Ichabod put his jacket away in the downstairs closet.

The young boy was beginning to think that Ichabod's superiors were correct. Though Ichabod's behavior was often unconventional, the man had certainly not been himself since the experience at Sleepy Hollow. It was as though, after gaping into the entrance of Hell itself, he felt he needed to be especially stoic about all of life's problems. It left him fundamentally… detached.

With a sigh, Masbath entered Ichabod's study/laboratory, put the bag down on a cluttered table, and lit a nearby lamp. Observing the damage of the worn bag, he moved to the sink and began dampening a sponge. Once it was damp and soaped up, he moved back towards the bag.

Ichabod was standing at the doorway, visibly more exhausted than he initially cared to let on. "I hadn't realized the hour," he explained. "Just give the outside a quick cleaning and go to bed. It would be cruel to have you doing chores at this time of night."

Masbath nodded. As he began scrubbing the outside of the bag, Ichabod warned, "I may sleep in. Take all of the necessary pains to see to it that I'm not disturbed until I awake of my own accord." Masbath nodded once again and bade him goodnight as Ichabod walked to his bedroom.

It was not long before Masbath felt something move under his hand. Looking down, he could detect small swellings within the bag, as though something were inside trying to get out. _A field mouse, perhaps_, he thought as he carefully opened the bag.

He thought himself correct as he reached in and felt something furry. However, he found that he was only nearly-right when he withdrew what looked like an injured—and quite filthy—bat.

_The poor thing must have fallen to the ground and gotten swept up into the bag when Officer Morris dropped it._ Masbath looked around for someplace on which to lie the creature down and finally decided to simply lay it on the table while he searched for a box. If the animal was grounded, it couldn't move very much on its own, after all.

Masbath looked through a nearby cabinet and found a pair of rubber gloves. He put them on, knowing they would be useful. It wouldn't do at all for him to get bitten and needing to be rushed off to a doctor. He couldn't find a box, and so took out a metal tray and aimed to line it with newspaper.

He stopped when he heard a fluttering of wings.

Turning back to the table, Masbath saw that the bat was gone. Alarmed, he dropped the tray, which resounded through the dark house with a thunderous clattering. The bat wasn't in the room at all, so he quickly sprinted towards the open door and looked through the corridor. The darkened hallway made it impossible to distinguish a dirtied bat amongst the shadows.

Ichabod came crashing out of his room, his hands fumbling as he fastened his robe. "What? Masbath, what? What happened?"

"Sir, I-"

"That sound! Are you hurt?"

"No sir. I dropped a metal tray, and I'm afraid it made quite a clang."

"Was that all?"

"Yes sir, but-"

"Young Masbath, please," Ichabod sighed, getting over the initial startle. "I asked not a few minutes ago to not be disturbed. Be a little more careful with the equipment in the study, yes?"

"But sir-"

"No buts!" Ichabod was already turning to go back into his room. "Clean up whatever mess you have made and get yourself straight into bed. Do I make myself clear?"

Deciding to stay up as long as he could to find the bat and be rid of it, Masbath replied, "Yes sir. I'm sorry I've disturbed you."

Grumbling to himself, Ichabod closed the door behind him and promised himself that he wouldn't stir from bed until noon. Running a hand through his hair, he shuffled back into bed without even removing his robe.

The moment his head hit the pillow, he was asleep.

* * *

Ichabod was awoken by a strange sound besides him. 

Confused, he reached out a hand without looking, feeling for Katrina. "Katrina," he whispered. "Where did you come in from? Your hair feels…." Cautiously, he peered to his side. His eyes adjusting to the gloom, he saw what he had for a split-second mistaken for his wife.

With a startled shout, Ichabod rolled away, falling to the floor. A shrill cry came from the creature that had been on Katrina's pillow. Upon hearing the leathery sound of wings, Ichabod yelped again and covered his head, diving under the bed.

"Ichabod!" Young Masbath's voice came from outside the door, followed by a series of hurried knocks. "Constable, sir, what's wrong?" Receiving no answer, the boy stumbled into the room, looking about anxiously.

"The door!" Ichabod cried from his hiding place. "Shut the door!" Seeing the dark apparition flying in a frenzy about the room, Masbath slammed the door shut behind him. Warily crawling out from under the bed, Ichabod pressed himself against the floor when he saw the bat dive for him. "_Open_ the door," he called shrilly. "Open the door!"

"Just stay down for a bit, sir," Masbath said as he sunk to the floor. "It's scared, is all. Once it calms down, we can open a window and let it out."

All was silent save for the bat scurrying about in the darkness. Both man and boy kept their heads down. Gradually, the sounds ceased. Ichabod slowly raised his head. Unable to see the winged terror, he crawled towards Masbath hurriedly.

"It's a rat!" Ichabod exclaimed.

"A bat," Masbath corrected.

"A rat with wings!" Ichabod conceded. "With unusually large teeth. Did they seem unusually large to you? Or was that because it was my temporary bedfellow?"

"We'll have to burn the sheets," Masbath stated, still looking for the bat. "They carry diseases, you know."

"Rabies," Ichabod exclaimed, still half-rambling. "Do you suppose it was rabid? It seemed particularly malevolent. Perhaps it was a Hell bat?"

"All seems quiet," Masbath said. "I'm going to open the window. Then we can turn on a light and see if we can drive it out."

Slowly getting a grip on himself, Ichabod stopped Masbath from getting up. "I'll do it. No sense in cowering in the corner." Rising, he stammered, "It's just a bat, yes? Another rodent. No reason to be afraid, Masbath. None at all."

His eyes roaming over the dark room, Ichabod slowly made his way to the window. "Would you like these gloves, sir?" Masbath called from behind him. "In case you'll need to edge it along?"

Ichabod laughed somewhat nervously. "Gloves? Of course not, young Masbath! I hardly foresee this venture culminating in hand-to-hand combat." Nevertheless, he quickened his stride to the window across the room.

Upon reaching the window, he undid the latch. He attempted to pull it up, but it wouldn't budge. He pulled again, but it seemed as though the window was stuck. He tried once more, but stopped when he heard the unmistakable flap of the creature's wings. "Ichabod, behind you!"

Ichabod renewed his attempts at pulling the window open, but his panic made all efforts futile. He whirled around and, upon seeing the bat swooping for the window, ducked and threw his arms over his head.

He heard a definite _thunk_ sound, then felt something fall limply onto his back. With a sudden case of the shivers, Ichabod unfastened his robe and quickly threw it off, making a variety of appalled noises.

The robe off, he jumped out of the way and observed what had happened. A reddish-brown stain smeared the window, and a lifeless rat with wings lay besides the discarded robe. The feeling of abject terror passed, and Ichabod suddenly had the distinct feeling that he was going to be sick.

"Young Masbath?" The boy replied to his call by standing up and taking a few steps towards them. He didn't like the pale look about his mentor's face… though it did seem strangely comforting. Ichabod reached a hand out. "Those gloves, if you please." Removing the gloves from his own hands and suppressing a smile that would be difficult to explain, Masbath silently gave them to him.

It would appear that the old Ichabod was back.


End file.
